NO.
The word echoed in Lucas's mind as time seemed to slow. The ball approached, a yellow missile of compressed fury. He could see everything—the fuzz on the ball vibrating, Hammer's triumphant sneer, the crowd leaning forward in anticipation. His shoulder, already screaming from the earlier hit, seemed to pulse with each heartbeat.
Move, a voice in his head whispered. Use Zone. Save yourself.
But another voice, deeper, answered: Show them who you are.
Lucas didn't move. He planted his feet, gripped his racket, and at the last moment...
WHAM!
The impact was brutal. The ball hit his already damaged shoulder like a sledgehammer, the force spinning him around. His racket flew from nerveless fingers, clattering across the court. He fell to his knees, vision blurring, bile rising in his throat.
[Critical damage received: -25 HP][HP: 65/100][Status: Severe shoulder contusion][Warning: Right arm functionality at 15%]
Through the haze of pain, he heard the ball ricochet out of bounds. Hammer's fault. 0-40.
For a moment, silence. Then the crowd erupted—not in cheers, but in laughter.
"What a fucking idiot!" "He could have dodged!" "200 euros says he quits right now!" "My grandmother has better survival instincts!"
The betting frenzy intensified. Lucas could hear money changing hands, odds being recalculated. He'd gone from dark horse to joke in one moment of misplaced pride.
Only a few applauded—Malik among them, though his face showed more concern than admiration. Most of the crowd just saw a stupid kid who'd taken a 120mph smash out of some misguided sense of honor.
Hammer spat on the court, the glob landing near Lucas's hand. "Are you retarded or what? This isn't a movie, kid."
Lucas pushed himself up slowly, each movement sending lightning through his shoulder. His right arm hung useless, fingers numb. He bent awkwardly to pick up his racket with his left hand, the unfamiliar grip feeling alien.
In the VIP box, Kozlov leaned back, gold teeth glinting as he laughed. "Brave but stupid. Give him three weeks before he's either dead or dealing." He turned to his companion, a thin man with dead eyes. "Cancel the recruitment. I don't need martyrs."
The thin man made a note in a leather-bound book. Another door closing.
Hammer served, clearly annoyed that his intimidation victory had been tainted by Lucas's stupidity. The serve was casual, almost insulting in its lack of effort. Ace. 30-40.
Lucas tried to position himself for the next serve, but his body wouldn't cooperate. The pain radiated from his shoulder down his entire right side. His left-handed grip was clumsy, like trying to write with the wrong hand.
Another ace. Deuce.
The crowd was already dispersing, the outcome obvious. Lucas watched his reputation crumble in real-time as spectators shook their heads and tore up betting slips with his name on them.
Two more points. Two more aces. It was over in less than three minutes. 6-2.
[DEFEAT][XP gained: 1500][Money earned: 0€ (no prize for losers)][Reputation: Serious challenger → Hothead][New status effect: Foolish Pride (-10% to all negotiations)]
Hammer didn't even look at him as he left the court. No handshake, no acknowledgment. To him, Lucas had transformed from opponent to obstacle to irrelevance in the span of one set.
The crowd dispersed with disappointing murmurs. Several bookmakers loudly announced that all future bets on "Ghost" would have adjusted odds—the odds of a fool, not a fighter.
Malik rushed onto the court, helping Lucas stumble toward the locker room.
"Fuck, you're really an idiot," Malik said, though his voice held more worry than anger. "You realize you just lost 400 euros in prize money? And your reputation? Nobody's going to bet on you now. You'll be lucky to get decent matches."
Lucas didn't answer. His throat felt thick, whether from pain or shame he couldn't tell. He'd thought he was making a statement. Showing he was different from the others who dodged and schemed and survived. But here, in this concrete jungle, courage and stupidity were identical twins.
The locker room was a cesspool of broken dreams and bodily fluids. Mold crept up the walls like black veins. The single flickering fluorescent light cast everything in a sickly yellow glow. Lucas slumped on a bench that creaked ominously under his weight.
A man appeared—calling him a doctor would be generous. He wore a stained lab coat that had probably been white once, years ago. His hands shook slightly as he examined Lucas's shoulder, breath reeking of cheap whiskey.
"Fifty euros," he said before even touching Lucas.
Lucas fumbled for his wallet with his left hand, counted out the bills. The "doctor" pocketed them before beginning his examination, his fingers probing roughly.
"Stretched ligaments, definite tissue damage. Probably some nerve impingement." He stepped back, wiping his hands on his coat. "Three weeks minimum without playing. Realistically? A month. Maybe six weeks if you're unlucky."
"Six weeks..." Lucas felt the walls closing in. Six weeks without income. Six weeks of his mother working extra shifts, thinking he was out there making something of himself.
"Of course," the man continued, reaching into his coat pocket, "there are alternatives." He produced a small vial filled with unmarked white pills. "300 euros. You'll be back on the court in a week. Maybe less."
[Unknown substance detected][Probable composition: Corticosteroids + Unknown compounds][Effects: Accelerated healing, increased pain tolerance][Side effects: Unknown. Potentially severe.]
"What are they?" Lucas asked.
The doctor shrugged. "Does it matter? Half the players here take something. You think Hammer got that strong naturally? Or that Kozlov maintained his power into his forties by eating vegetables?" He rattled the pills. "This is the real game, kid. Chemistry and cash."
"No thanks."
The doctor's expression soured. "Your funeral. Literally, maybe. I've seen kids try to play through injuries like yours. One wrong move and that arm's done forever. But hey, keep that pride. I'm sure it'll pay your rent."
After he left, Lucas sat in the putrid silence. His phone buzzed. His mother.
"How did it go, sweetie? Did you win?"
Each word was a knife. He typed slowly, left-handed: "Good. Won a match. Tired. Coming home."
The lie tasted like ash. But what else could he say? That he'd gotten hurt playing illegal tennis? That the 500 euros she'd saved was gone? That her son was a fool who'd chosen pride over survival?
"Ghost."
Lucas looked up. A man stood in the doorway—gray suit that had seen better decades, sweat stains despite the cool night, a paunch that spoke of too many bribes taken over too many dinners.
"I represent... let's call them interested parties." The man entered, his cheap cologne failing to mask the smell of corruption. "You lost tonight, but you showed something. Stupidity, maybe, but sometimes that's valuable."
"What do you want?"
"Straight to business. I like that." The man pulled out a cigarette, lit it despite the no-smoking sign. "500 euros cash if you throw your next match. Their boy needs a confidence boost. You play the first set close, fold in the second. Everyone wins."
[Offer detected: Match fixing][Accept = 500€ but permanent reputation damage][Refuse = Maintain integrity but...]
"My father died because of match fixing," Lucas said, his voice hard despite the pain.
The man's laugh was ugly, phlegmy. "Your father? Oh, this is rich. You're the Moreau kid." He took a long drag. "Let me educate you, boy. Your father wasn't the saint you think he was."
"Shut up."
"He owed 300,000 euros to the Bratva. The Russian mob doesn't take IOUs." The man leaned against the lockers, enjoying Lucas's shocked expression. "The match fixing was to pay them back. But your daddy got greedy. Thought he could skim some off the top, pay his debts slower, keep playing. You know what the Bratva does to thieves?"
Lucas stood abruptly, left fist clenched. The man raised his hands mockingly.
"Hey, don't shoot the messenger. I'm trying to help you here. Those same people your father owed? They're still around. And they have long memories. Maybe taking my offer keeps you off their radar. Maybe it doesn't. But 500 euros is 500 euros."
He dropped a business card on the bench. No name, just a phone number.
"Think about it. You'll find me here every Friday. Oh, and kid? That shoulder's going to hurt like hell tomorrow. Pride's a luxury you can't afford."
He left, trailing cigarette smoke and implications. Lucas stared at the card, his world tilting. His father, his hero, the man he was trying to vindicate... was a debtor? A thief?
His phone buzzed again. Unknown number.
"Don't believe everything you're told. The truth about your father is more complex than they want you to know. Meet me tomorrow, 3 PM, Café de Flore. Come alone. I knew your father. I can help you understand what really happened. - A.S."
[New quest: "Hidden Truths"][Objective: Meet A.S.][Warning: Potential danger][Additional info: A.S. - Identity unknown]
Malik returned, helping Lucas gather his things. "Ready to go? And seriously, don't come back until you're healed. This place..." He gestured vaguely. "Sharks smell blood here. And you're bleeding."
On the way out, Lucas noticed things he'd missed on the way in. The underground was revealing its true face.
Men in black suits stood at strategic points, photographing every player entering and leaving. A kid—couldn't be more than sixteen—was being dragged toward a van, his protests muffled by a hand over his mouth. "Please, I'll get the money!" he managed to scream before disappearing inside.
A woman sat hunched in a corner, clutching a photo of a young man in tennis whites. She rocked back and forth, muttering, "He said one more match. Just one more match to clear the debt."
A bulletin board near the exit was covered in photos. Some crossed out in red. "Missing" written under others. At the bottom, in small print: "The management is not responsible for players who fail to meet their obligations."
[Observation: This world hides more than illegal tennis][Analysis: Organized crime involvement - 87% probability][Recommendation: Extreme caution]
The night air hit Lucas like a slap. The industrial district was deserted, shadows moving in alleys that might have been cats or might have been watchers. Every footstep echoed.
On the metro, Lucas caught his reflection in the dark window. Pale, sweating, cradling his useless arm. He looked like a ghost—but not the intimidating kind. The kind that haunted its own life.
[Status Update:][Lucas Moreau - Level 6][XP: 1500/3200 for level 7][Injury: Shoulder (28-42 days)][Funds: 550€ (after "medical" payment)][Accumulated debts: 0€ (for now)][Reputation: Badly damaged][Active quests: "Hidden Truths," "First Match" (suspended)]
He gritted his teeth. Over a month without playing. Without income. His mother was already working two jobs, coming home exhausted, still managing to smile and ask about his day. The rent was due in two weeks. 650 euros.
The system, usually so chatty with advice and observations, remained ominously silent. As if it too was recalculating, reassessing whether Lucas was worth the investment.
Tomorrow, 3 PM. Café de Flore. A stranger claiming to know his father. It could be a trap. Probably was a trap. But what choice did he have? The truth, even an ugly truth, was better than this limbo of doubt.
Lucas closed his eyes, trying to shut out the pain. In his mind, he saw his father's face—not the heroic image he'd built up, but the real man. The one who'd come home late, sometimes smelling of alcohol. The one who'd had hushed phone conversations that ended with thrown furniture. The one who'd hugged Lucas tight the night before he died and whispered, "Whatever happens, remember—I tried to protect you."
Protect him from what?
[System advice: Truth has a price. Are you ready to pay it?][Warning: Once learned, some truths cannot be unlearned]
The metro rumbled through the tunnels, carrying Lucas back to a life that suddenly felt like another lie. Tomorrow would bring answers. Or more questions. Or maybe just more pain.
But one thing was certain: the game had changed. This wasn't about climbing back to the top of tennis anymore. This was about survival—his own, and the memory of a father who might not have been the man Lucas thought he was.
Ghost? He was beginning to understand the name. He was haunting a life that might never have been real.
The train pulled into his station. Time to go home. Time to lie to his mother. Time to pretend his shoulder didn't feel like it was full of broken glass.
Time to prepare for tomorrow's revelation, whatever it might bring.